In My Dreams Tonight
by MadamGrandAdmiral
Summary: As Aoima's life takes an unpleasant twist, she discovers that she is no longer safe as she sleeps
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Kingdoms, the universe where this is set, though it can be read without prior knowledge of the setting.

**Forsaken**

_Why have you forsaken me?  
In your eyes forsaken me?  
In your thoughts forsaken me?  
In your heart forsaken me?_

_System of a Down, Chop Suey_

The room she found herself in was oddly familiar, though she couldn't quite place it: an uncertain cold feeling deep in her stomach as she tried to remember where she was. Sitting up, she opened sleep-heavy eyes and cast about. Her head was filled with a fog of indistinctive memories, her limbs seemingly weighed down by tiredness that seemed to restrict her every motion.

It was a basic room, nothing marking it as unique or special: it could be the room of a hundred different people in hundred different places, a double bed and a dresser being the only notable pieces of furniture present. The looking glass flickered with what little light there was in the room, showing her reflection to be concerned, lost and confused: the crack upon its surface distorting her horribly. Aoima looked away quickly, not liking the way her other self seemed to sneer, the broken glass intersecting her face as a scar would.

She couldn't remember how she had gotten here, to whom she had been speaking, the face of her last gentleman caller…where Nestor was. Aoima couldn't see her weaponry or any of her recognisable possessions; she was dressed in something that she herself had never seen, something utterly plain and simple that she almost tore it off. Exile she might be, but she would never admit to being a pauper.

Reaching for the dressing gown that lay upon the chair, she wrapped it over the thin nightie, and walk slowly towards the window, gazing out at the lawn that lay beneath. She could view the carefully manicured trees of a knot garden, with expansive lawns stretching as far as she could see, as well as the delicate blooms of a rose arbour in the distance: all in all, a grand garden that could belong to any of the many houses she had visited in her 45 years of life. Yet it struck a chord within her, her heartbeat rising to an alarming rate. Something uncertain was echoing within her, and she wasn't sure how best to answer.

It perplexed her; she recognised it from somewhere, but she couldn't seem to drag it to the forefront of her mind. Like a bad taste, the familiarity haunted her, but she couldn't quite place the location, the sick feeling in her stomach growing stronger as she leaned against the windows and gazed across the balcony. Something wasn't right: It wasn't right at all.

Then it came to her: she knew where she was: her hands fiddled desperately with the locks on the door, claustrophobia overwhelming her all of a sudden: she had to get out! This was her prison, the cage she had been forced within by those who claimed to love her…and it wouldn't be long until her gaoler was along.

That balcony…it was a10foot fall to a hard stone path underneath, where her heels would break and she would have to run shoeless to the stables…memories of those unspoken 2 months from 5 years ago, that period of her life she refused to acknowledge around her right now, a solid reality she could not easily escape from. The locks seemed to have stiffened since she last entangled with them, the metal refusing to move despite her best efforts.

"So glad you could join me again, my darling…" Aoima's breath caught in her throat as she recognised the voice, slippery as silk and twice as elegant: her eyes widened as she felt the dread rush through her, sapping her strength still further. Fingers frozen from their task, her blood turned to ice as she turned on the spot to face the speaker.

Reginald de Breos wore the darkness like raiment, the shadows moving sinisterly over his person as he stalked towards her. "It's been far too long, wouldn't you say?" His uniform was well presented, as always, the faint scent of starch that always seemed to linger whenever he was apparent: every line, wrinkle and imperfection exactly as it was the first time she met him, his sneer still lecherous and smacking of perversity.

"How…what am I doing here?"

"What, no witty retort? No comeback? My dear, you do disappoint."

Her face creased with confusion, overwhelmed by the absurd impossibility of it all…she could not be here; de Breos could not have caught with her, not after all this time. How had he reached Five Fingers alone: he hated humans, despised them even. There was no way he'd ever have left Ios: so how had she been brought to him? Who would have caged her and sent her back to this animal? They stepped tentatively around each other, assessing the other: Aoima did not feel confident in herself, her usual strength and speed seeming slurred by something she couldn't understand or comprehend.

"You didn't think I'd forgotten you, petal?" A cold hand rose to touch her cheek: she tried to deflect, but found his grip stronger than she recalled, thin stony fingers coiled about her wrist. She gasped aloud in pain, and he seemed to take pleasure in this, sneering lips peeling back from pearly teeth, musty cold breath cast across her face. "That pale, deceptive beauty that caused me to lose so much? The traitorous slut who took the valet into her arms, but not the lord?" His words were hissed with poisonous venom she had never heard him use before: clearly, her elopement had been a major loss for him. "Oh no, you may have hoped for it, but you have never been far from my mind, my dear Aoima."

"I never wanted to be with you, I made that abundantly clear to both you and my family!" She tried again to pull away, only for him to capitalise upon the momentum and pull her back, her body tumbling to interact with his. His arms snaked around her and held her tightly to him: She shuddered, feeling his clammy flesh, an odd cold sensation left wherever he had touched her.

"You could have had everything, Aoima…but you forced me to punish you." His icy lips whispered into her ear, twitching against the tip, sending a reflexive shiver of pleasure through her. Sickened, she struck him with her elbow, smashing it into his ribs and managing to break free…temporarily. "When will you realise that you cannot escape me?"

"You don't own me…you never have and you never will!" Her voice was loud and harsh and completely foreign to her ears, the wave of emotion that ripped further from her throat draining her energy. She was pulled backwards as her hair was yanked: she screamed in pain as Reginald dragged her back to the bed. He threw her down, her body contorted as he forced her body around like a doll, laying his weight upon her and restraining her.

"Oh no Aoima…I've owned you since the moment your father signed you away to me." Her head twitched in response to this, a look of anger passing over her features. She pursed her lips, arched her neck and spat at him. This only seemed to spurn him on, the leering smile growing even wider. The pressure upon her seemed to grow as he shifted his weight to keep her down, his mouth again pressed beside her head. "Even as you fled as far away from me as you possibly could…you're still mine."

"I hate you…and you hate me – why can't you just let me go?"

"But you are so delightful, my dear…I could never tire of playing with you." He whispered into her ear, like a dirty secret only the two of them could share; a deviant shame he seemed to delight in revealing to her.

"I'm not here for your pleasure… for your enjoyment…" She whimpered, her voice not entirely still, shaking with fear and worry as he wrenched her around and held her still, looking down at her, almost hungrily. He felt cold against her, icy and strong and utterly indomitable, his face twisted viciously into that of a gorgon. "I'm not yours; I belong to no one." Tears began to fall down her face, her wrists beginning to ache as his weight continued to suppress her.

"You've never been free, Aoima, you're fooling yourself if you believe otherwise. You'll never be free…I'll always be here, haunting you…tainting you and everything you pursue." His voice began to grate on her nerves, drilling into her mind as she attempted to resist him. Her breast rose and fell fast as her breathing increased even more, dread rising within her.

"And why is that? Do you believe I'll never find some way to defy you, some way to defeat you? I escaped you once before, and I will do it again." Hidden strength surged through her, something tapped at the final moment to carry her through, flooding through her like adrenaline, renewing her conviction. "I'm not alone anymore; I have friends and allies who will not allow you to do what you did to me again!"

Her face furrowed in anger, even as he struggled to overcome her: she felt her lost strength returning as she kept him from her, scrabbling hands restrained frustratingly only inches from her body. Aoima would not allow him power over her: he could only have it if she relinquished it…and she would never do that willing, not to him.

"Your rag tag mercenaries mean nothing to me, just as your spouse means nothing." He barked his response as if it were an order she was not obeying, his normally well controlled mask splintering away to rage and frustration at her refusal to kowtow to his demands. "I'm here, inside your mind, where you can't escape me…Your worst enemy, the person who knows you better than any other. I know where you are, I know what drives you…I know your weaknesses, and I know how to undermine you." He became more controlled, his voice now carrying a heavy sense of threat, subtle and succinct as it was when he had dealt with her on particularly stubborn days. It was a voice which promised a great deal and gave nothing away, sly undertones sending cold fear through her veins.

"I'm more than what I once was; you will never turn me into the shell of the being you intended for your wife." Her voice cracked as she spoke, the strength faltering slightly as she felt a reminiscence of those two months return, how it felt to crawl naked across a cold floor, to be kicked in the face and then for fingers to be trodden upon, the noise of ones bones crunching and splitting before her…

"I don't need to…you do that perfectly well on your own." Just as suddenly as he had struck, he withdrew, disentangling himself from her and drawing from the room almost completely, gliding shadow-like faster than she could follow. "When you least expect it, I'll come for you: when you are at your weakest, that will be when I return to claim you!"

She lunged forwards wildly, screaming indistinctly as she tried to tackle him, only for the darkness to swallow both him and her, the floor rushing to meet her as she fell, senses keen to the pain that occurred. Her eyes closed and snapped open again, to hear an entirely more welcome voice speaking, a more familiar set of warm hands holding her tightly.

"Wake up, Aoima…it's me!"

Breathing deeply, she looked around, confused and unsettled. Nestor looked back down at her from where he stood over her, the beginnings of red scratch marks becoming apparent on his face. More damage seemed apparent in the half light, but he would not stop to check it, leading her back to the bed. Standing up ungainly, she clambered back onto the mattress, a little ashamed at the violence of her nightmare: that she had ended up hurting someone. Her body ached, and she imagined that she herself would have some fairly extensive bruising in the morning.

"I'm sorry…bad dream." She mumbled, not wishing to discuss the specifics, preferring to keep this rather explosive subject silent. "Did I hurt you?" Her fingers rose to touch the sensitive looking flesh on his cheek, only for him to wince away in pain, reaching up to remove her hand and to inspect it himself.

"I guessed." He sighed, blue eyes watching her for a few moments as their breathing slowed to a normal level. He seemed to be considering what to say next, words and sensitive subject matter both apparently of concern. "It was him, wasn't it? You're dreaming about de Breos."

It wasn't a question: she interpreted the statement as an accusation, knowing all too well Nestor's opinion of what had occurred, and the tone of his voice.

"I don't want to…It hasn't happened for such a long time. One of the reasons I don't think about what happened before, or him…" She sighed and drew closer to his warmth, feeling his longer hair tickle her nose. "I don't like to think of the power Reginald has over me. Its frightening…or it is to me. I don't want to be owned or possessed, and that is exactly what he did to me – how it feels to me still."

"You're here now, you're safe – no one can reach you in Five Fingers, not whilst I'm here watching your back." His words were brittle, well intention but difficult to speak allowed: the tirade of words and emotions he felt towards her ex-fiancé still as strong as ever, waiting for the appropriate outlet to unleash them. His fingers ran through her hair as he coaxed her into relaxing again, calming her emotions and lulling her into a dreamy semi-consciousness.

"Thank you…" She drifted off to sleep again, face serene and calm, mind remaining blissfully clear of any pervading influences, wrapped carefully in the arms of Nestor. How long this serenity would last, neither of them could say: just as neither of them could accurately surmise when the past would finally ensnare Aoima with any certainty.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a beautiful day outside, sunlight streaming in through the unclean windows

**Future Past**

Aoima opened her eyes and saw a long winding corridor before her, a carefully decorated rug spanning the length, tapestries and pieces of artwork hanging along the wall. She couldn't recall this place per se, but in her gut, she knew it was Ios, a grand location in her homeland that reeked of wealth and taste. The sandstone, the style of the building, the engravings that illuminated the taste of the occupier…

A pang of grief at being separated from her birthplace arose in her chest as she stepped forwards gently, the lulling calm of the obvious dream world washing over her, not quite reaching her pounding heart. Her last dream of Ios had been less then pleasant, the horrific memory of Reginald over her, overpowering her, threatening to possess her.

She suddenly became more aware, suddenly: in her hands she carried a tray, silver and engraved, over laden with food and drink. It weighed down upon her arms, the sweet scent of the food wafting upwards. Light was mysteriously not present here, dark and subdued, but she knew where she was going, something drew her towards a certain room along this corridor. She began to walk slowly forwards, her clothes simplistic and plain, feet barely making any noise on the plush floor covering. Walking slowly along the corridor, she placed the tray down as she carefully unlocked the door to the bedroom, replacing the ring of keys upon her belt as she walk inside. She didn't know why it all felt so familiar, yet so alien: it felt as if she had gone through this motions at least a hundred times, yet she couldn't recall ever being in this house.

It was a beautiful day outside, sunlight streaming in through the unclean windows as Aoima quietly entered the room, her hand reaching to stroke the hair from the face of the child that lay in the cot sleeping. The boys' eyes opened suddenly, pupils focussing on her slowly as he sat up. No more than 4 years old, his skin was pale, hair a dirty blonde colour, body beginning to lose the chubbiness that characterised a toddler. His hands reached limply up to her, barely acknowledging her, merely demanding her attention.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realised that is was her child, a surge of feeling that she couldn't explain rationally making sudden sense to her. Unable to hold back, she reached downwards and picked him up, kissing his forehead and stood up, going to open the curtains and illuminating the simplistic room. With a jolt, she recognised it as the prison she had been kept in before she had fled.

With a distinctly sour taste on her tongue, Aoima lay the child down, changing his clothing and napkin with a practised ease she didn't realise she had, settling him upright upon her lap as she reached for the soft hair brush. She smiled at him gently and began to brush his hair, gently pulling the knots out of his wispy locks. Her heart seemed to overflow with compassion and love towards this small child, despite not really recognising him.

"Did you sleep well, Aoifan? Did you dream last night?" The small boy turned to look at her blankly, a thousand yard stare passing through her, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinked and turned to continue doing up his buttons. Contemplating his appearance, she recognised the shape of his mouth and his button nose as her own: his eyes remarkably similar to Reginald's. Her blood turned cold, hand frozen on the brush as he watched her dolefully. "Well, I'm glad you feel better today." She embraced her son closely and hugged him, a smile stretching widely, almost painfully. The dream had taken a horrid turn all of a sudden; she did not like the implication of this child.

Aoifan paused for a few moments, his arms bending stiffly as he attempted to return the warmth, not quite understanding the emotions portrayed. Something wasn't quite right with him, his face devoid of emotion, skin oddly chilly for such a lovely day.

"I can't stay here very long, sweetheart, I have to go and speak to your father in a few minutes…" Her voice seemed forced; vaguely remembering that mentioning Reginald seemed to have an unpredictable affect upon his progeny. This time, Aoifan merely turned around and stared out the window, picking up one of his toys and clasping it closely to him. "Come on, Aoifan: you need to eat up." He looked blankly at her, before realising what he held and snuggling close to her breast. Exhaling, it slowly dawned upon her that the child might not yet weaned onto solid food, and carefully, she undid the buttons upon her dress, pressing the child close to her, reluctance fighting an odd need to do this for her child. Disgust and discomfort were soon overruled by a strong maternal instinct that rose from her solar plexus like a glorious light as she watched the child settle close to her heart, suckling gently. There was something distinctly odd about seeing those eyes so close to her bare naked skin, so very like his father's; it made her skin crawl.

"Milady, your husband requests your presence in the study." A voice announced behind her, the door opening and closing quickly as the butler vanished as soon as he had appeared. She sighed, her spirits sinking even lower as she realised the inevitable conclusion of this dream.

Eventually Aoifan withdrew, clambering down from her lap to climb upon the window seat, gazing out the window at the gardens outside. She placed one of the plates with toast and jam upon the table next to him, along with the small glass of water, leaving the rest on the sideboard out of his reach. "I'll be along when I'm finished with your father."

Aoima didn't know where this knowledge came from, she didn't understand the words, or who the child was – she just knew it was true. Her voice came from her, and she couldn't resist the urge to say what it was she was speaking aloud. Opening the door and locking it behind her, Aoima began to walk along a familiar trodden path, a sense of foreboding in her stomach as she approached the thick oak door at the end. Knocking on the door, she waited for a response: upon hearing it, she walked in, head bowed.

"Good morning, my Lord." The room was dark, curtains drawn closed, a light faintly glowing from the candles along the far wall: one would hardly know it was a glorious spring mid-morning in the gloom. Reginald de Breos did not stand as she entered, reading some letters, the embers in the fireplace glowing gently with heat. She held back a sneer of disgust at the man she had been forced to marry, feeling icy rage course through her. Dream or not, she couldn't wait to wake up.

"Good morning, Aoima." He didn't look up, a letter knife in the one hand, thick sheets of paper in the other. She couldn't help but wonder how easy it would be to overpower him, to sink that small knife into his belly, to feel his insides fall out down her front, the pleasure she would feel at seeing the sadistic bastard finally die at her hands almost too tempting: it was only a dream, after all. "You may sit." A sneer twisted his smile as she approached the desk, noticing the distinct lack of a chair opposite him. He moved backwards in his seat, indicating the floor space next to him. "You know what you're supposed to do by now."

Bile rose in her throat as she realised she would have to go close to him, close enough for that overwhelming scent of starch and sweat she associated with him to wrap itself around her. Gently falling to her knees, she leant forwards, leaning on her hands and began to crawl towards him, feeling humiliation rush through her, despite knowing that there was no one watching.

Upon reaching him, she carefully rose into a kneeling position, keeping her head bowed. He seemed to ignore her, whatever he was reading of far greater importance than she, taking time to read each word and consider it in its context. Distractedly, he carelessly tossed a piece of meat from his plate onto the floor a few feet from her: anger rising inside, she knew it was intended for her, and she would be expected to eat it.

Continuing to crawl, she picked it up, placing the remnant of his meal inside her mouth and returned to her place next to him: She felt his hand rest upon her hair, stroking it gently: she accepted the offering, knowing somewhere inside that this was the greatest kindness he would ever show her.

"You're trained well…now, I suppose you have a great many questions about this place?" He looked vaguely intrigued by her, an eyebrow raised in something akin to amusement. "How are you finding your life with me?"

Her eyes widened: he knew that she was unsure of her surroundings? She made to stand up, only for the same bone-crunching grip from her last dream to force her back down, a manic grin upon Reginald's face as she crumbled down to the floor. "There's the spark, there's the passion that made me want you…the wildness that made you worth the effort." He leered downwards, holding her face in the one hand, breathing with musty breath upon her. "I'm glad our 20 years together haven't changed you, I always enjoyed a challenge, and I always found it in you. Oh, the pleasure I had breaking you…" His other hand tugged on her hair viciously, exposing her throat to him, fingers brushing the heavy ear-piece attached to her left ear. "Such a poisoned, delicate beauty…it's almost a waste to keep you locked away."

He looked at her with such perverse and ill-disguised wantonness she almost gasped aloud – he had never shown such a lack of control around her, always guarded with his actual needs and desires around her, careful to keep her just out of reach: both to avoid the temptation she presented, and to punish her for her betrayal so long ago.

"So…why do you keep hassling me? Why am I here again?" Aoima asked, practically begging, terrified at the turn this dream was going to take. The leaching presence he had upon her was beginning to take effect again, her strength being sapped from her bones as his grip tightened further. His leer widened.

"Because you want me to be here: ever since that foolish Vylaeth made you share your deepest secret with him, you've been secretly wondering how your life would have been, had you not fled." He spoke very matter-of-factly for a mere ghost in her dream, rationalising himself so neatly it once again unsettled her. "Intriguing, isn't it, that you would want to be back here, being my breeding mare. What do you make of it? Are you enjoying the security and protection I have offered you?"

He stood up sharply, dragging her along with him, her strength negated in the face of his. Barely able to put up a struggle, Aoima found herself literally swept along in his tide, forcibly taken from the room and led down a long gallery lined with various paintings, many of which seemed to be of de Breos family members. It was a stiff, formal atmosphere, almost like a church in that one did not dare to raise one's voice in the presence of these powerful ancestors. The portraits seemed to glare down upon the viewer, scowling, frozen in time unhappily. Aoima was not comfortable in this place, in the presence of so many of her husband's repulsive relatives, each one of them looking as cruel and calculating as the man leading her forwards.

Upon reaching the end, she found herself released briefly, before yanked down into a chair, Reginald's hand planted firmly on her shoulder, securing her in place before a large and ornate painting. Curiously, she stared up at it, her heart failing as she took it all in.

Standing quite proudly and self-assured in the centre was Reginald in full military regalia, wearing the medals and ribbons both he and his ancestors had earned, a glorious light seemingly emanating from him. His unpleasant features took on a softer appearance, he looked younger, more vital, pointed ears not sticking out in such an unattractive fashion as they did in real life. Next to him, half swooning, was her- a look of enchantment and longing in her eyes as she embraced the heroic looking man next to her, wedding dress decadent and lovely. Her hair seemed longer, bodice a little lower than the dress itself actually would: she had been turned into a portrait pin up of the perfect little wife. She breathed in vey slowly as she attempted to control her temper.

"So what happened…I came to the Fane, you and I were married…" She said casually, not allowing the hatred she felt to spill over into her words. Perceptive as ever, Reginald chuckled, grip tightening enough to bruise, yanking her up again to view another painting further down the gallery.

"You weren't happy about it, you were very resistant to me at first…but you mellowed after a few years of being kept on a tight rein." He leered, walking past a few smaller images that showed the two of them in various pursuits of the wealthy, though she was always depicted in the weaker, female role, allowing him to loom over her despite her impressive height.

"I've spent years in that prison?" She stopped in her tracks at this, turning to look at him in disgust. That damn smile of his only seemed to widen.

"You were stimulated in suitable ways, I'm not cruel." He said, the sick humour lacing his tone informing her that the exact opposite was true. "I took you to parties when it was necessary, you saw your parents when they made sufficient protest to see you." He continue to chivvy her along, her strength amounting to very little as they continued their struggle past the hideous lies painted on canvas along the walls.

"What about the rest of the time?" She continued, her horror continuing to mount, fear growing in her stomach as they approached the end. Aoima did not know what it was he intended to show her, but it wouldn't be pleasant, whatever it was.

"We spent time together, as all loving couples are inclined to." Falsely optimistic, he was clearly experiencing a great deal of pleasure at her expense, revelling in her misery and fear as he used brute strength to force her along.

"There is nothing loving about our relationship, Reginald, and there never has been."

"Come now, my dear harlot, I was the best you could ever hope to marry." He stopped, grasped both her shoulders and shook her hard, jolting her neck and causing pain to explode along her spine. Her head nodded pointlessly as he shook her like he would a doll. "You were spoilt and ruined, your modesty in tatters, and you insisted upon waving your promiscuity proudly before you as a standard. You were a whore your parents could not wait to offload onto someone else, even me." He stopped, looking deep into her wide eyes, appraising her. Trembling in fear, she was frozen to the spot as he leaned forwards to whisper something into her ear. "You were so desperate for someone to touch you after abstaining for so long you begged me…and I didn't hold back. You crawled over the floor slowly towards me, crying softly for my touch. I made you bleed and beg and moan until I grew tired of your presence." His silky voice hissed into her ear, the subtle enjoyment he had over making her squirm as clear as day as he began to laugh, continuing his crusade along the room. "You fell pregnant very quickly…being young and fertile, the perfect combination with my breeding. After you gave birth to Kearney, we were not intimate for another 10 years or so: besides, there were plenty more beautiful, wholesome women living and working on the estate to entertain me." Fighting against him was helpless, her frustration at being unable to react overcoming her. "There will never be a moment in our marriage when you will not regret dallying with the valet…I would have made you the happiest, most content woman in the Ios had you only been loyal to me."

"You sick fuck." She cried out in anger. Once again he stopped in his tracks, eyes flashing as he glared down upon her. Shaking, she was surprised when the hand that touched her was caressing, touching her cheek gently.

"Your language, my dear, leaves a lot to be desired." His fist struck her across the face, blood pouring out of her split lip. He pulled her close to him, eyes narrow as his breathe quickened, clearly aroused by the blood and the violence. She cried out as his fingers smeared the blood over her lips, bringing the red vicious liquid to his mouth, sucking it from his digits. He licked his lips clean and smiled again, leaning in to her face as he spoke. "You still taste as good as the night we consummated our marriage…its true what they say about women whom are with child."

"You mean…." Her breath caught in her throat, and his hand rose to grasp her hair, turning her to face the final painting in the series, a well-arranged image comprised of herself surrounded by four children of varying ages, a number of hunting dogs and Reginald, surveying them, his living estate, a hand casually resting on her shoulder, the background that of the lands his family had possession of. With her head bowed and a child to her breast, the painted Aoima was the picture of a good spouse, delicate and gentle as the children around her, all of whom seemed to resemble their father more than her. She moaned aloud, falling to her knees before the hideous reality of what might have been, the weight of it all causing her to crumple physically to her knees. She couldn't take it, even in her dreams, this was too cruel, too painful to appreciate.

Reginald walked around her slowly in clipped, measured steps, jolting her back to the dream-like reality of the portrait gallery and the sick dream she was currently forced to inhabit.

"What were you expecting, Aoima? I told you, you are my breeding mare. Too many people questioned why you were not yet pregnant, and so I decided it was time to claim my marital right." Once again, he forced her to stand up, his hands running over her body and grasping at the inexistent bulge in her stomach. "Four children, and one on the way…your parents will be so proud of you…"

"No!" She sat up, wrenching herself finally out of the dream and back to reality

Married at 40

First child conceived at 44 – born at 45 – Kearney Lann

Second child conceived at 55 – born at 56 – Reine Kendryck

Third child conceived at 57 – born at 58 – Aoifan Drystan

Fourth child conceived at 60 – born at 61 - Armylle Erlina


	3. Chapter 3

Aoima sitting in the dining room for 3 -4 hours waiting for him to return…dressed beautifully

**Commemoration**

Sleep came easy to her that night, and, unbidden, her dreams took a dark twist: for when she next opened her eyes, Aoima was once again in Ios. While usually the distinctive decoration and colouring of the traditional elven styles filled her with remorse and longing, she only felt a mild fear and panic at what was to happen next.

The table was set, the cutlery glimmering like gems. Food was displayed beautifully, wine bottles arranged before her, a feast set for a Lord and his lady; Aoima sat, vague, dreamy memories telling her she was waiting for her husband to return home.

Dressed in a fashionable gown and pearls, she counted the seconds as the clock ticked to her right, the hours whiling away as the food began to spoil in front of her, the scent of cooked food tempting her. Her stomach grumbled with hunger, limbs feeling weak and heavy.

Aoima sighed, wondering what the point of this dream was: what was wrong with this setting? The feeling of dread in her stomach had not abated yet, and that alone worried her. Shuffling in her seat, she realised that she was still pregnant, her bump small and non-invasive for the moment. Her clothes seemed to be elegantly cut so as not to unflatter her pregnant figure, but still restrictive enough to keep her straight back and awkwardly positioned.

Something did not feel quite right: hair on her neck began to prickle needle-like against her skin. She could not quite dare consider what might happen to her this dream; they seemed to all take some disturbing twist, her mind barely able to overlook certain possibilities. Even as Aoima tried to sit still, she found herself inexplicably shaking, terrified of what was going to happen.

Her mind twisted itself around the possibilities of why she was trapped in her dreams with her ex-fiance – what part did he play in her mind, now she was far away from Ios? Surely, she wanted nothing more than to move on from her cruel former fiancé? Lost in her thoughts, she jumped as she heard voices outside the room.

The door slammed shut as Reginald walked in, clothes more than a little dishevelled from his evening out. Aoima stood up as he entered, waiting for him to acknowledge her. He proceeded to throw himself into the chair opposite her, lounging comfortably with a smug smile on his face. There was a strong scent of alcohol around him, the scent of smoke following him into the room – the scent of the gambling hall and other women upon him.

"Do forgive me, I'm a little late. I hope I haven't kept you long." His voice was oily and slurred slightly, a lecherously evil look upon his face. Reginald reached forwards, viciously knocking the dish cover from the platter before him, wrenching the leg off the cooked poultry before him, raising it to his mouth and tearing at the meat.

She tore her eyes from him, not saying a word, reaching towards the basket of bread before her. After so long away from Ios, her manners had not tarnished: she still recalled the correct etiquette – though she wasn't sure what was appropriate in this particular instance.

"Not at all. How can you be late in your own house?" Her eyes glittered, her smile as fake as his pleasant façade, taking her knife in her right hand and cutting the soft bread in her hand, tearing her eyes away from his pitiful form.

"Quite so…" He surveyed her briefly, before returning to his chicken. "Do dig in; I hear the fish is quite good." He spoke through a smile, something disgusting "I'm sure there was enough wine to keep you entertained…Do drink up." Reginald drunkenly reached for the nearest wine bottle, smashing the top of it against the table, glass and flecks of wine staining the table and floor. He sloshed the wine into the nearest glass, drinking deeply of the red liquid. He drained the bottle as she tentatively picked up the bread and offered it over to him. He smiled sympathetically, reaching forwards to take the basket from her.

"Why thank you, my dear." He smacked the bowl from her hand, food tumbling all over the floor. As she flinched, she withdrew her hand slowly, feeling spurned, watching suspiciously as he reached for a dish in front of him. He began to stagger towards her, clutching the beautifully prepared game bird, smile widening to reveal teeth and alcohol-tainted breath.

"Would you like some of this, my love? It has been prepared especially, in honour of our anniversary." He plunged his hand into the cooked meat, grasping a handful between his fingers, walking with menace towards her. Icy foreboding slipped into her stomach as she realised the sadistic smile on his face.

"I've somewhat lost my appetite." She said, attempting to excuse herself, not liking the sickly sweet expression upon his face. Her breathing subconsciously grew faster, shuddering at the fear of what was going to occur.

"But you're eating for two now…come now, have a little."

"I'm not hungry." She said with a tone of finality.

"Eat it." He spoke with malice, stalking up to her, burying a greasy hand in her gently curled hair, forcing the food down her throat, fingers pinching her nose to make sure she swallowed the meat. She choked as he did this, fighting the urge to retch as he dropped the plate, wiping his sticky fingers on her silky gown. He chuckled to himself, fingers reaching for the ladle on the nearest soup bowl. "Won't chef be pleased...but what's this, you haven't had any soup…" He lifted the ladle over her head. "You must try this…" He dribbled the cold soup over her hair, the viscous liquid falling over her shoulders and down her front. "See, isn't that good?"

"My compliments…" She said sadly, not wishing to be impolite, yet afraid of his wrath. His face turned to a frown at her perceived rudeness, his face illustrating the cogs turning in his head, the calculating mind of the sadistic undoubtedly concocting a new horror.

"You better have some more then, since you're enjoying it so much." Reginald spat rudely, turning the bowl over her entire lap, soup ruining her dress completely. Her head bowed, she sighed, and then looked at him; summoning more words to her lips.

"Aren't you going to eat?" His eyes narrowed, and he casually reached for another leg of meat, chewing on it and spitting the bones in her direction. She sat still, listening and waiting obediently for her 'husband' to address her again.

"But you must be thirsty." As she watched, Reginald uncorked another bottle with his teeth, unevenly filling the glass before her, spilling wine over the edges of the glass and ruining the table cloth. "There you go." He looked triumphantly at her, smacking the glass down before her.

"Thank you." She knew there was little she could say as she reached towards the glass. She picked it up, looking enquiringly at him. "Are you going to propose the toast?" She said, trying as hard as she could not to be anger him anymore. He seemed to like this proposal

"To our anniversary, may we have many more years together." He laughed hollowly, a shiver passing through her. He threw the drink down his throat, reaching drunkenly for the bottle and pouring it down her throat again, forcing the neck into her mouth. She fought against him, unable to breathe, wine choking and burning her windpipe.

Reginald withdrew the bottle, and then allowed it to spill over her, laughing at the look of horror on her face. His hand stroked her face, reaching down to stroke her soiled face. "I'll see you in the bedroom, my love…" He stood up and weaved his way over to the door. Flinging it open, he greeted one of the kitchen maids, indicating for her to go up the stairs. He threw a hideously perverse look at her, casually waving his hand towards her.

She attempted to stand up, silent tears falling down her face as she tried to get up and head towards the door, the urge to clean herself of the filth she had been covered in. She fell to her knees, sobbing, her hands holding her face, wailing softly.

Time seemed to pass remarkably quickly as she eventually managed to pull herself to her feet, staggering up to her room to purge herself of the mess she had been covered in. Filling the bath with water, she sat in it, unaware of the time passing by, feeling pain pass through her, an emotional pain that no dream should be able to do to her. Why was she so afraid of him? How could he hold this much power over her, after such a long period of time? The water went cold before she could decipher what it was her subconscious was telling her, and she wearily dragged her cold limbs from the water, dripping wet. Delicate clothes had been left out for her to wear, a fine silk negligee wrapped in tissue paper.

The clock in her room chimed to indicate early morning, and dressed appropriately, picking up the wrapped gift that lay propped against her wardrobe. As her fingers curled around it, the notion that it had been dictated to her, what she had to present to him, came to mind.

Walking barefoot through the house, she held the package close to herself, unsure what it was, and yet certain of it, that unhappy feeling returning to her stomach as she approached the room she knew to be his. Her knock was acknowledged, and she entered, a pleasant heat emanating from the fire warming her chilled flesh.

She got the impression of unfamiliarity in this room, that even after all the years they had been married, she had barely spent any time in here. Walking inside, her eyes adjusting to the low light, Aoima recognised the maid from earlier lying in the bed, seemingly asleep. Her husband sat at his bureau, half-dressed, attending to some papers.

"Ah my dear, what have you brought me, a gift…a gift for anniversary, how thoughtful." He stood up from where he sat, sauntering over to her lazily, taking the proffered item. Removing the paper, another of the grossly painted portraits from her last dream was revealed, the colours too bright, the ghastliness of the false happiness painted upon the canvas causing her to look away in shame. "A portrait of us, how wonderful, here, allow me to put it over the fireplace…"

She could hardly say she was sad when he allowed it to fall from his hands and into the fire, but there was a heaviness in her heart she could not quite place: as the canvas burned up, she watched her wide smile disintegrate, a pain filling her as she turned to look at Reginald once more.

"You've had a lovely evening, then." She tried to smile, remembering her duty to her family, and to him: the pain and suffering her refusal to marry had caused all of those around her: it was her fault, these feelings – she had brought it all upon herself. Even as she sat here in her silken robes, she couldn't help but feel that she was to blame for everything.

"Yes." Reginald replied dismissively, pouring another drink.

"I'm glad the anniversary means so much to you." She stood up slowly, determined to leave him to his devices and the maid, but found his hand on her shoulder, pulling her back around to look at him.

"It's not quite over yet, Aoima…" Something about the way his eyes flashed scared her, that dark reflection of horrific deeds appearing, along with a ghastly smile that make her blood freeze. Quicker than she could follow, he threw her over the desk, forcing her legs apart viciously, tearing the silk she wore slowly, chuckling as her frightened sobs got louder. Unable to stop him, she held still, tears flowing, hoping he would take his satisfaction soon

Too slowly, it was over, the hand relaxing its painful grip on her hair, the sound of hands searching for something, and a gentle tinkling noise as a flicker of gold appeared on the desk beside her. Drawing herself up, her face covered in silent tears, Aoima held her tongue, biting her lip and forcing herself to swallow the string of words she longed to spit at him. What did it matter? He was always so much sharper than she was; his silvery tongue a wicked weapon to lash her with even more.

"A whole gold, I thought I'd be generous for our anniversary too..." Without any more words, he returned to the bed and the maid, gently waking her up and beginning their lurid encounter once again, eyes flicking up now and again to make contact with her, lips curled up in a smug smile of satisfaction.

Picking herself up gently, she reached for the gold, knowing if she left it there would be a further punishment; as if this wasn't bad enough! Dressed in ripped and torn clothing, pain between her legs and an ache in her heart, Aoima staggered back towards her room, holding her sobbing back until she had locked her room and collapsed to the floor.

Tears fell even as she slowly woke up, the pain not fading even as the dream did. Nestor did not stir next to her, facing the other way, seemingly asleep and enjoying a rest she herself did not seem to be able to acquire.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a dark and stormy night…

**Portrait of a Lord and his lady**

It was a dark and stormy night, lightning fragmenting the inky darkness of the sky, clouds angry and ebony black, wind howling the mansion like a predatory wolf. The servants had gone around earlier in the evening, after Reginald had left, locking all the windows securely, shutting the curtains and bolting the doors shut to prevent damage to the rather splendid mansion. She had listened to their whispers about the master leaving, about the weather being an ill portent for his pleasure that evening, all the while planning her own entertainment.

Aoima, however, ignored this chatter of misfortune for the most part, settling into the wicker chair beside the crib with a warm smile on her face. This new baby was growing up fast, and she couldn't help but giggle when she saw its angelic curls, its wide, toothless grin full of innocent mirth. There was no way these moments spent with her child could be tarnished.

What made it even more saccharine was the victory she had won over her husband – despite all his bluster, all his promises, he had not managed to keep her away from their newest daughter. Even now, as he sat around a table playing card games well into the night, he would have no idea that she was secretly here, spending quality time with Leonya.

"Maa-maaaa!" The child with the chubby cheeks pointed at her mother and strung the few syllables it knew together, drool dribbling down her face as she triumphantly spoke her only word. Aoima's heart exploded with delight at hearing her child speak, so pleased she was with herself and her daughter.

Holding the tiny boy close to her, she felt Leonya's small hands grasp her clothing, latching onto her mother and holding tightly: she practically screamed with happiness, the warmth of her child washing over her, resting against her body as the connection between mother and child strengthened. She was so lost in her pretend world with the child she didn't notice the door open softly.

"What do you think you are doing here?" softly spoken, yet a distinctive hint of malice, the nursery door swung open to reveal Reginald's silhouette, supported slightly by the doorframe. She gasped, quickly standing up and replacing Leonya in the cradle, uncertain what to do or what to say. "I've been looking for you, my love…" She began to walk towards him , realising her only escape was through the door he protected, determined not to be driven away by him.

"I was - " Faster than she could follow, his hand jabbed forwards, fist smashing into her throat, the inability to breath or think without pain eluding her. She fell to the floor, unable to react, watching fearfully as he circled her, like a hawk to its prey, the alcohol in his system causing him to take a rather unorthodox route around her.

"I'll tell you what you were doing here, you deceitful little bitch!" He spoke with venom: clearly, he had had a most unfortuitous night with the cards: it did not seem that lady luck, nor any other of the female persuasion had favoured him this evening. "You were defying me, weren't you? You were breaking my rules in my house, and that I cannot allow."

She cried allowed and curled up as a well-aimed kick landed on her breastbone, his foot smacking into her hard as she lay, prone and unable to defend herself. "You know you're not allowed in here, how dare you come in here!" He was ranting: in the half-light she could see his eyes, wild and wide, the liberal amounts of alcohol in his blood driving him to this half-lunacy.

"What do you think you were doing, what were you doing…" He seemed to cast about violently, looking from left to right, expecting the answer to materialise. A smile illuminated his face a few seconds later: clearly he had happened upon an answer. "I'll tell you, you were trying to turn it against me, you were trying to turn it into your creature, against its father, and I won't allow it!"

Aoima attempted to get to her feet, tasting blood in her mouth as she struggled to regain her stance, incredulously watching Reginald's drunken slurring devolve into rampant delusions. He looked at her, a flash of fear passing through his features, soon replaced by an anger as powerful as anything he had felt those last few minutes. "It's a conspiracy, they're all against me. I know what your game is, I know what your plan is, I saw you talking with your brother, don't think I didn't!" He spat this time, Aoima raised her hand to wipe her face clean as he continued his tirade against her, accusations growing wilder and wilder. "He's already had money off me, well over 6,000 gold…" He mumbled this, frustration replacing outright anger as he seemed to pat his pockets down, searching for any remaining coinage on him. "And now you're going to turn the child against me. Your swamp life blood of a family is trying to take off what's rightfully mine, trying to ooze up out of the mire that you infest; but I know this, and I won't let that happen." He put a hand to her chest and propelled her away, before loudly stating: "This is de Breos land, de Breos money and I won't let you have it. I've been on to you from the start!"

"You're insane, you're drunk!" She finally managed to get her words in between his, eyes narrowed in anger at his tirade. How dare he speak about her in such a way, how dare the drunken sadistic monster accuse her and her family of such blatant and obvious lies!

"All part of your brothers plan, I'm sure you know…but if I know its an ambush I can repay it tenfold, can't I, my dear?" His handed tangled itself in her hair, twisting viciously within the long locks and yanking her around, like horse in its bridle.

"What the hell are you on about?" She called out, attempting to break away from him and failing, his grip far too tight to allow her freedom. "What the hell are you doing?" He pulled her back to him, holding her body against his: she could smell the thick scent of spirits on his breath, feel his heart pounding against her…

"That's right, always playing the dutiful wife, but I know what really lurks in your mind." Reginald looked deeply into her concerned eyes, an eyebrow raised, a wide smile on his face as he leant upwards to kiss her, pressing his lips to hers. She attempted to resist, but found it impossible to pull away as he sank his teeth into her bottom lip: groaning, she pushed him away, blood spilling down her front as his teeth tore her flesh.

Her hands flew to her mouth, desperately trying to stem the bleeding, daubing away at the precious liquid, hardly noticing as Reginald, chuckling to himself, kicked her feet from under her, causing her to crash to the floor again. As she lay crying, he walked over to the crib and picked up the child, holding it close to him.

"You're not getting her...she's mine." He considered the child with a kindness he had never shown her before, before the mad gleam and the ranting returned. "They're all mine and you'll never see them again, none of them, not even that…stinking bastard whelp of yours."

With characteristic cruelty, Aoima watched how, almost in slow motion, his foot came from nowhere and crushed her hand, the crunch and snapping of broken bones barely heard over her cries of pain and horror, and his laughter. She struggled against herself to stand up, running after her drunken husband, desperate to save the child from anything he might accidentally do to it.

"You're drunk, put the child back, please!" Aoima spoke through her tears. "Love of the gods, please put the child back!" She cried aloud, following him through the house, calling out after him out of fear for the child. Tears flowed openly down her face as she tried to struggle towards him, her wrist throbbing with pain.

"You want it back? You want it?" It was like a scene from a nightmare, a leering, maniac holding her child over the banister of the stairs, the blankets it was normally wrapped in unravelling and dropping to the wooden floor beneath.

"Yes, please, I'll do anything, just please put the child back were it is safe…"She spoke through her tears, afraid of getting too close. Pausing for a moment, he seemed to consider her offer for a moment. Taking advantage of this, she made to grab the crying baby, missing her target as Reginald moved the child to cover under his arm, grasping Aoima's neck and sweeping her along.

"Safe? I'll put you were its safe…" As she choked and struggled, he swept her legs out from under her and pushed her down the stairs, her head striking a number of steps as she tumbled to the bottom, her body crumpling like a doll at the bottom, unconsciousness washing over her.

Aoima woke up in pain – something she was getting more and more used to with these dreams: her broken wrist was bound, but tender: her lips ached and her head throbbed, the back of it sore, remnants of blood encrusted in her hair. It hurt to breathe deeply as she struggled to sit up, reaching for the clothes that had been left out for her – an uncharacteristically fashionable set, she considered, as she attempted to dress herself with her injuries.

"The lord awaits his ungrateful harlot, milady – you might want to hurry along!" A less-than-polite servant came in the room, sneering at her attempts to dress, eventually getting bored and yanking the dress into place, ignoring her cries of pain as she tied Aoima into her robes. "You wouldn't wish to keep disappointing him…though I suppose you aren't good at anything else!"

She barely had time to register the way in which she was being addressed, so suddenly afraid of the reprimand she would receive – her feet carried her to the place she knew she had to be, hardly stopping to draw breath. From nowhere, she vaguely recalled some kind of sitting for a portrait she had been required to partake in; terrified of the punishment she would suffer for her tardiness, she fled to the destination.

Opening the door to the gallery, she saw that her family had already taken their places, the children immaculately dressed and well presented, standing around their father, a chair she presumably was meant to assume looking obviously empty. Upon noticing her presence, the three children seemed to glare, their father briefly smiling before replacing it with a much more neutral expression.

"You're late." She took her place on the seat beside him, taking the baby that was offered to her, the weight causing a great deal of stress to her damaged wrist. Reginald didn't seemed to notice her wince, placing his arm behind her in a less than pleasant way.

"Yes, I'm sorry, I must have overslept." Aoima did not make eye contact as she glanced away, the unfamiliar person sat behind the easel arranging his brushes and paints, before standing up and attempting to reset their positions. He criticised the shabbiness of the bandage about her wrist and her mauled lip, frustrated as he returned to his place and began to sketch, angrily drawing wide arches with a pencil on the canvas.

"Never mind, my wife has a fondness for alcohol and fell down the stairs…" He hid the sneer from all but Aoima, moving the blankets from baby to conceal her broken wrist. "Fortunately the new born was with the nurse."

She looked abashed as the artist looked disapprovingly at her, muttering under his breath and making dark looks towards her whenever his eyes passed over her. Her husband, meanwhile, continued to move between looking smug whenever she caught his eye and remaining neutral for the artist. His other hand was placed in a protective paternal fashion on top of the baby's blankets, occasionally stroking and smiling for it.

"Its nice to have all the family here, wouldn't you say?" He addressed Aoima, eyes glimmering in a way that dared her to contradict him. Feeling confident in the presence of someone who could surely not dislike her anymore than he already did, she spoke up.

"They're not all here, are they, my love. We're still missing one."

"Drinking again already, Aoima." He spoke in a kindly condescending tone, patting her broken wrist and causing her to wince. "They're all here. All my children are here." He put stress on certain words in his last phrase, looking daggers at her and ending the conversation officially. She dared not argue further. He waved his hand in the direction of the artist. "Continue."

Aoima sat still, spine aching, pain shooting through her periodically: phasing out, she looked out the window, rain falling against it, no other sounds present except for the strokes of the artists pencil.


End file.
